


Awakening

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, canon compliant mostly, cosmic irony], weaver got shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:00:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: Weaver is dreaming or halucinating after Alice shot him, but suddenly everything starts to make sense as he gives in to what he sees and feels, even from beyond the grave, his beloved saves him.
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Kudos: 11





	Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the RumbelleShowdown 2020 as Treacle_in_a_chipped_cup. Round 1 winner.
> 
> Prompt: Dancing in the rain.

It was the most absurd thing he could have thought; lying on the floor, fighting to breathe, in so much pain that it didn’t hurt any more, the cloying scent of iron filling his awareness, and wetness spreading against his back, his head…

_Longest dry spell in the history of Seattle._

The dim light within the container darkened further, became vague, as if he were surrounded by clouds, as though he were a part of them; reflecting strange images, bizarre thoughts.

“No, Papa, not thoughts.”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, because that’s where he was. Nowhere. He turned full circle, answering the voice; naggingly familiar, like a half forgotten harmony to a song he knew _so_ well.

“A dream then,” he said, and idly wondered why he hadn’t objected to being named ‘papa’ when he knew _damn well_ that he had no kids. Wasn’t the type.

A chuckle sounded and a sudden brightness in the fog resolved into the figure of a man who took a step towards him just as he realized he was on his feet, and not on his back, in an increasing pool of his own blood.

“You always _were_ difficult,” the man said, close enough now that Weaver could look into his face and saw his own eyes staring back at him. _Papa_ The word echoed in his mind. This _had_ to be a dream, some kind of hallucination as he neared death.

“’Fraid not,” the man said as though he knew exactly what Weaver was thinking. “You can’t, remember?”

“Can’t?” he asked, not understanding. His confused frown became one of pain, his body suddenly on fire and the bright mist surrounding him began darken.

“No, no, no, no, no,” the man cried urgently, but the voice had changed, was strange; two in one. “Stay…”

 _”…with me! Weaver, don’t you_ dare _…”_

_His pain increased as a pressure on his chest held him down against something balled at his back. He managed a rasping breath._

_“That it.” Rogers’ voice; soft, almost crooning. It made him want to laugh and he fought not to; fought against the pressure on his chest. “I’ve got you.” Then Rogers’ voice turned harsher. “Where the_ hell _are the paramedics!”_

_That was it. More like the partner he remembered._

“…remember…? Immortal? Cursed?”

No warning. He was back in that strange, ethereal place and felt hands on his arms gripping him tightly. He frowned. He _knew_ this man. Surely he did; like an itch he couldn’t scratch, a word on the tip of his tongue. A word… a name.

“…Baelfire…” 

The whispered voice was soft, feminine. It made his heart lurch and his stomach clench. He flooded with emotion he couldn’t explain: a tangible longing, such loss, but also incredible warmth, belonging… love.

“Papa?”

He opened eyes that he hadn’t realized he’d closed, felt the run of moisture over his cheeks, and reached up, meaning to swipe at his face, but his… son…? He moved first, cupped his cheek and wiped away the tears with the gentle pass of a thumb. It felt both right and very wrong, both at the same time.

“Who is she?” he almost sobbed.

“Oh, Papa,” the man breathed, then he seemed to reach a decision, and said, “Come with me. She doesn’t have much time.”

It wasn’t so much a ‘going’ as suddenly being in somewhere else, as though he had dissolved from one place, and appeared in another. He stood in a misty hallway, a petite woman in front of him reaching to open double doors. She wore a short, black skirt, and a matching blouse, her high heeled, platform shoes were also black and white, but it was wrong somehow, he knew, and frowned, even as he followed her into the room beyond.

She turned to him then. Her absolute beauty took his breath in spite of the lingering wrongness still swirling in the fog. Smaller than he, her chestnut hair fell in waves about her shoulders. Her skin was a soft pink, her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes… their ocean blue shone with the warmth, with the love he had felt when she whispered his son’s name. He didn’t even wonder at his acceptance of that now.

“So… what do you think?” The words came from his lips, a question, not for her, but for _his_ utterance of them.

“I think we’ve been married almost a full day, and I don’t believe we’ve had our first dance,” she answered.

He shook his head. “Backwards…” he breathed even as she snapped her fingers.

Once… twice… thrice and again… in a blink everything changed. The ballroom, the chandelier, the music. She stood resplendent in a floor length gown of yellow gold, perfection in ruffles and lace. The softness of silk stroked his skin. The blue and silver finery not at all what he was used to.

Memory stirred and everything turned right-side-up.

_”Care to dance… Missus Gold,” he said._

_“I would love to.” Her answer was coy… alluring._

They moved together and he took her in his arms, and she fit against him perfectly. They moved as though they were one, and he closed his eyes to feel her better, to reach into the warmth that radiated from her, reaching for…

“Rumple,” she whispered. 

His eyes flashed open. The room, the light, gone. She was still in his arms, but they were not as before. Her dress was blue and white, a maids. He felt… different, defiled, dark. He recoiled at tight scales on his hands. The tightness clung to the whole of him, and a rush of self loathing subsumed him. He heard a whimper, did not recognize his own voice until she soothed him softly.

“Sshh,” she murmured. “Trust me.”

They spun in the dance and the cold, dark hall around them dissolved. It re-formed into the clutter of a much smaller room. There was light and happiness there. He heard the soft murmur of a sleeping baby - _their_ child - over the still imagined music which sank into each heartbeat and became part of every breath he took.

He barely caught a glimpse of the child in the bassinet before the room spun away as they turned in the dance, to become the softness of a sunlit cottage. Timeless, except no… _she_ had aged, but neither the gray in her hair, nor the slight cloud in her blue eyes diminished her beauty, her perfection. She was still in his arms, and he still belonged to _her_.

“You will find your way back to me again.”

At her words, the images that left his head spinning darkened like a slowly failing lamp to leave them both circling slowly on the packed dirt, flashes of red and blue, blue and red, colored the dusty air of Seattle’s seedier side.

“I’ll show you.” She murmured.

_Longest dry spell in the history of Seattle._

A raindrop splashed the arm of his leather jacket, then his shoulder, and he looked up to the darkness above. Cloud rolled in out of nowhere and rain finally fell, wetting the ground, sinking into the cracks and imperfections, even into _him_.

They danced on regardless, stepping and turning, whirling together, in perfect unity as he pressed close to the beautiful young woman in his arms, losing himself in the azure depths of her eyes.

“I promise,” she whispered, and brushed his lips with hers.

A torrent of memories fell with the rain to soak him to the skin, to the bone, to his very soul as every lost and hidden moment of his life returned to him, and he knew… even as she began to fade. He knew _everything_.

His eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids. He could see her through the mist that curtained them. Overwhelmed, terrified to lose her again he cried out, “Belle… wait! I remember…”

Weaver gasped as he woke. Everything hurt but he couldn’t let go of his dreams. No… not dreams. Memories. _His_ memories.

Killian was there - Rogers - rattling on; handed him the mangled remains of a bullet.

“Should be dead by all accounts.” Rogers said, “You must be bloody immortal.”

“Immortal,” he breathed, a foot still in both worlds.

“That was a joke… mate,” Rogers said. It wasn’t funny. It reminded him of all he’d lost: Himself, his son, his beloved Belle. He felt control slipping. He couldn’t allow that. Not now. Not yet.

He took another pained breath, gave orders to Rogers, who argued only briefly, then complied, leaving him to fight his storm of emotions. It wouldn’t do to break down. Not yet. Not now.

A nurse bustled in to taking his vitals, fussing to make him comfortable.

“Hey,” he said hoarsely and nodded to the window. “What’s it doing out there?”

“Raining,” she answered, “and I never thought I’d say this, but… thank God.”

_”…I promise…”_

And Rumplestiltskin laughed until the storm broke, and then he wept.


End file.
